


Dogged

by Uakari



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Dogs, Humor, M/M, birthday fic, derp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uakari/pseuds/Uakari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nezumi's life is fraught with canine interference...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elanra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elanra/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Elanra! Thank you for dragging me, kicking and screaming, back into this fandom. Hope this year is wonderful!
> 
> Inspired by early morning conversations with Eijentu. This is all your fault, you nut.

Sunday mornings inevitably start the same way. Nezumi will lay sprawled across his half of the mattress, half awake and half covered by the sheet, one arm bent over his face to keep the sun out of his eyes, and hope against hope that the clock on the bedside table reads something later than 6:00 AM.

The clock inevitably does _not_ read later than 6:00 AM, however, for it is a well-regarded rule that the moment the sun manages to crowd its hateful morning through the narrow slats in the blinds that never seem to be closed properly, all two legged creatures must rise from their slumber to begin the daily ritual of love and adoration for their four-legged overlords. Ideally, this ritual begins with the opening of a large can of meat-like-substance slathered in gravy and ends fourteen hours later with scritches and belly-rubs in bed. More realistically, though, it tends to occur in stops and starts throughout the day, with a healthy smattering of “Who’s a good doggy?” coddling thrown in to make up the difference.

Nezumi knows the truth. There is no “good doggy,” nor has there ever been. All dogs are bad dogs, lying in wait to piss on his boots, eat his scarves, and regurgitate their meat-like-substance slathered in gravy onto his half-read books.

All dogs can go to hell.

There are good mice, like the three still sleeping on his pillow. Still, even they’ve started picking up nasty, dog-like habits lately. Maybe it’s because they’re getting on in their years and can’t find food on their own as easily these days. Maybe they’re just getting lazy. Either way, he’s not obliged to share every crumb of cake that comes through this house with them, and no amount of indignant squeaking is going to change that.

Shion will be the first out of bed to take care of the needy beasts, which is just as it should be. Unfortunately, this will not happen before he kicks away all of the blankets he’s hoarded throughout the night and makes a huge production of nuzzling against Nezumi’s chest and finding overly-sensitive patches of skin Nezumi never knew he _had_ to jam his freezing toes against, which is not as it should be at all. 

Nezumi closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable. Judging by the brightness of the sunlight burning through his eyelids, everything ought to begin in five-

Four-

Three-

Two-

_One-_

He opens his eyes again, wondering if Shion has actually managed to sleep in longer than himself. He runs the hand that isn’t occupied with shielding his eyes across the bedsheets next to him, but all he finds here is rumpled blankets. He sits up.

He’s alone apart from the mice, who eye him warily and tuck their noses back against the pillow.

Well that’s perfect, he thinks to himself. It’s been ages since he had a lie-in, and longer still since he might have enjoyed one. He rolls to the middle of the mattress and splays his arms and legs wide, taking up all the parts of the mattress he’s never able to enjoy for all the damned canine interference he receives on a nightly basis. Shion’s pillows are creeping halfway to the foot of the bed, so he steals these too. He swipes his own while he’s at it and crams them behind his head and under his shoulders. It’s a perfect nest here of pillows and duvet and blankets-

And he can’t enjoy any of it because he’s wide awake, internal clock long since programmed to a dog’s schedule.

_Well, fuck this._

He hauls himself out of bed, intent now on finding Shion and making him suffer at his side – at least until there is breakfast to be had. He creeps down the narrow staircase from the bedroom to the small living area on the first floor and is disappointed to find it empty. It must mean he’s gone out for the morning: their home is too small for him to be simply in a different room, unseen – staying in Lost Town had made certain of that. He can see from the front door all the way to the back, and Shion is nowhere between the two.

There is a pot of coffee burning away on its heater in the kitchen, so he traipses over to fetch himself a mug before the best of it has boiled off. He wonders vaguely if there are any eggs in the cupboard as he pries the milk from the refrigerator, but doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought as something out back catches his eye through the kitchen window. He grips the coffee mug tighter and leans toward the glass.

There isn’t much of a back garden attached to their home. In fact, the small, concrete patch of land connected to their back door might best be called a sidewalk, or even an alleyway. Whatever one chose to call it, it wouldn’t change the fact that the back end of their neighbor’s home is a mere five meters away and set with multiple windows and at least one glass door. Whether this occurred to Shion in the early hours of this morning isn’t entirely clear.

What is entirely clear, however, is the view Nezumi now has of Shion’s back end, covered in tight-fitting red cloth that barely has the decency to cover the rounded ends of his ass cheeks. He’s holding a hose and bent at a forty-five degree angle to ensure that the same (and possibly better) view can be achieved from both the first and second story windows. Or maybe it’s so he can finish soaping off the damned dogs. It doesn’t really matter, because his ass is still in the air and he’s still soaking wet. Nezumi can already hear the argument forming: 

_But Nezumi, I wear this to the beach and no one says anything. What does it matter if the neighbors saw? Why should they care about my round, supple ass, or my washboard stomach? Everyone has already seen the way my back undulates when I laugh-_

Nezumi sets the coffee mug on the counter with a clank. It’s too early for this shit and he needs a cold shower.

Now.

Halfway to the bathroom, his heel catches the end of a rubber hot dog, which squeals its joy at being stomped upon loud enough to bring a large, wet mutt barreling in through the backdoor. It’s on him, shaking its fur dry and lapping its rough, wet tongue across his cheeks, before he can kick the damned squeak-toy across the room, and its master isn’t far behind.

“Nezumi! Come give me a hand washing them!”

There are no good dogs.

But the hose might make for a decent cold shower.


End file.
